


Distant Memory

by LadyAJ_13



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Endeavour Morse Whump, F/M, Hostage Situations, Post-Canon, love that's an actual tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-27 04:04:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18731257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAJ_13/pseuds/LadyAJ_13
Summary: Morse has been captured, but the local gangster has been watching a bit too carefully... he knows hurting Morse won't make him compliant. So he's got a back-up plan.





	Distant Memory

**Author's Note:**

> Fred Thursday has died in this, but off-screen in a general 'we are quite a few years past the series' sort of way - so I didn't add a proper warning for it. He's just not in the fic. But let me know if you think that needs changing.

Waking is a slow, syrupy slide upwards – like he's had the best night's sleep of his life. Except, as he reaches the surface, there's a thumping in his head that feels like the mother of all hangovers. He opens his eyes.

Ah.

It's been a while, he reflects, as he tests the rope around his wrists for give, sucking in air as the motion wrenches his stiff shoulders. Must be getting on for a decade since someone knocked him over the head and tied him up. He hasn't missed it. Thursday, it turns out, had a point about being more careful.

There's no give in the ropes on his arms. He tries instead to move his feet, but they're just as secure, and the chair is a heavy one. He could probably tip it, but then where would he be? On his side and just as stuck. They've left him here alone, he realises, because there's no danger of him escaping.

There'll be no one coming for him either. Back in the day Thursday would have; could always count on his DI to come dig him out of trouble – but now. Thursday had stayed on longer than he should have, probably to make sure Morse wouldn't run headlong into something he couldn't get out of as soon as the door closed behind him. But he retired a long time ago. It must be... his head's still fuzzy, and he wonders if his captors gave him something in addition to the conk on the noggin. Three years, he decides. Since Thursday died. If he'd retired sooner he would have had more time with Mrs Thursday. Or maybe he'd just have gone sooner instead; one of those men that need to feel useful to carry on.

He shifts slightly on the chair, cataloguing with an inner voice that sounds like DeBryn. Bruises to his abdomen, but likely not broken ribs. A few punches rather than a kicking, then. His arms have gone to sleep, so even if he's untied he'll be useless fighting back until the blood starts flowing again. Probably no sprains though.

No, no Thursday to come after him now. No one at all. Never got his own bagman, never met anyone he could work with properly, call a partner. And Bright's long gone, of course. The nick's changed a lot, none of the old crowd left but him and Strange, and they've... drifted. He won't notice Morse's absence, and even if by some miracle he did, he'd just assume he was out chasing down a lead. Lone wolf on the scent once more.

God, he needs a drink. And not even whiskey. Water.

The door bangs open. “Mr Morse.”

His head snaps up. “Crangley.” The local gangster smiles, stops just out of arm's reach and drops into a crouch.

“My reputation precedes me.” Morse says nothing. “I'll get right to it, Mr Morse. No sense in beating around the bush, is there?” He lights a cigarette, slowly, and blows the smoke up towards Morse, who swallows down a cough. “You know where they're holding Ben Langford. You're going to make some calls for me and have him released.”

Langford? Morse's mind whirls. The kid's a small-time crook, albeit, he sees now, with powerful friends – or perhaps powerful enemies – who'd been picked up on a shoplifting charge a week ago, then turned bloody in the arrest. Took down the security guard with a knife to the gut before officers subdued him. “What do you want with Langford?”

“None of yours. Now, are you gonna make the call?”

Morse snorts. The kid's young, stupid, but the guard is still in hospital. And he doesn’t negotiate with criminals. “Of course not.”

“I don't think you're quite understanding the rules of my little game.” Crangley pulls a knife from his belt, gestures with it nonchalantly as he continues. “I've got you trapped in here, copper. All you need to do for me is make one little call.”

“Right, because then you'll let me go.”

“No... I'm not an idiot, Mr Morse.”

“Its Sergeant Morse.”

“Is it now?” He stands and tucks the knife away. He seems in no hurry. “Still? Things don't change much for you... or they change slowly. Like treacle.” He spins and walks over to a table in the corner. “I think you're going to do exactly what I say, but not because I wave a knife at you. No, you're too brave for that. Always willing to be the one on the line. Chase down us bad guys with a broken leg if you had to. Yes, I know all about you...” He fingers a photograph that's too far away and at the wrong angle for Morse to see. “But I've got someone you love. Someone you won't want to see carved up on your behalf.”

Crangley extracts the knife again, dragging the tip down the photo, but Morse relaxes. One benefit of being the lone wolf is that there's no one to care for. Whoever they have back there – he hates that they've scooped up anyone at all, but they won't hold more sway over him than anyone else. Thursday's gone, after all, Jakes – if he'd ever been in this special category – long since out of the picture, nothing but a sentence on a postcard each Christmas. And Joycie, of course, but she also fell for an American and has been living in California these past five years. Somehow he's dubious Crangley's reach extends across the Atlantic. It must be a police officer, given his limited social interactions, and they'll understand he can't negotiate.

“I doubt that.”

“Come now, Mr Morse. You're not a psychopath. You're a weird one alright, but you won't want her getting hurt, I can guarantee.”

Her. His mind races. “There is no one.” Crangley chuckles.

Monica? he wonders. No, hardly anyone knew about her at the time and he hasn't seen her in a decade. Shirley? Doubtful. They'd barely have classified themselves friends, let alone anything else. His stomach drops.

“Joan.” Crangley's voice is so perfectly timed that Morse, for a second, worries he'd said it himself. There is a beat of silence. “I can see that name means something to you.”

“I haven't seen her in years,” he tries. It's the honest truth; he'd pass a polygraph on it. The last time was the funeral, but even then they hadn't really talked. He tries to remember when they last spoke. It was probably some inconsequential morning, as he gulped down hot tea waiting for Thursday, and she flew out the door to work. She'd probably teased him about something, she always did, but whatever it was – he's imagining, not remembering.

“Ah, but love. Doesn't really die, does it?” Crangley fingers the photo again, picking it up this time. He holds it in front of Morse's eyes, slightly too close for proper focus. It's definitely her, looking much as she had at the funeral.

“You could have got that any time.”

“Thought you might say that.” Crangley stoops, and with a swift motion slices through the ropes at his feet. “Get up.”

He hauls Morse upwards, letting him stumble for a second before dragging him roughly from the room. He shoves him up to an internal window, made from a serving hatch. Inside the kitchen; Joan. Her face is tight and drawn, staring down into a untouched cup of tea. Her hair is mussed, her skin white against her lipstick, but she looks unharmed. Two other men in masks – Morse figures by the stature that one of them as Crangley's right hand man, Stevens, the other unknown – sit opposite her.

“Don't you worry, Morsey. Not harmed a hair, so to speak. Yet. You make that call-” he nudges the phone on the hall table – “and she walks out of here. You don't walk with her, of course. Can't risk letting you go. But not bad for a last act, right? Saving the girl you love?”

“I don't love her,” he says roughly. But when Crangley holds the phone up to his ear, he chokes out the number of the local holding cells, and closes his eyes while the gangster dials it in.

 

–

As soon as the call was done he was tied up again, a few knocks given for good measure on the way back down the corridor. His left ear had taken the brunt of the last one, catching a whack on the door frame. He can feel blood trickling down his neck. It itches.

He doesn't know if they let Joan go – there was no way for him to bargain, or make sure. He just had to hope that a criminal would stand by his word. Sometimes these older ones came over with a bit of chivalry. Scare a woman, perhaps, but avoid causing physical harm. Sometimes.

He's guessing Crangley is waiting to know for sure the kid has been set free, just in case there's any further need for him; a follow up call, or a signature. But these things generally don't take too long. He'll be back any minute. Then a busted ear and a maddening itch will... well, they won't be problems any more.

Not a bad last act? He's let a crook free, one who's seriously hurt someone already and is in with enough bad company to ensure it will go further, get worse, given the chance. But then he pictures Joan, colour back in her cheeks as she sits in her own house (one that looks remarkably like the old Thursday residence, given his lack of imagination)... could be worse.

The door opens with a bang.

“Alright matey?”

He blinks. “Strange?”

 

–

The precinct is busy, people flying everywhere, papers teetering and cups of tea being spilled. It seems the cavalry was rousted, though quite how, he's not sure.

“How did you find us?”

“Holding cells thought it was weird you were getting someone out,” replied Strange. He'd just finished taking Morse's statement in his office; an act of kindness. A DI didn't usually do such things, but Strange had noticed his wide-eyed look as everyone turned to watch their motley crew enter the station. Crangley, Stevens and the other man shifted off one way by uniformed officers, Joan – a little wide-eyed herself, mainly in reaction to Morse's ear, given her worried looks in the car – shuffled off in another by a WPC.

“It happens.” Informants released, or deals struck to catch bigger fish.

“Mmm, not with you. Not once, Morse, in fifteen years. Suspicious you'd start now, and over someone like Langford. Cells called it over to us, and when we couldn't get hold of you... we traced the phone call you made.” Morse ducks his head. Simple, in the end. Honest police work. And it saved his skin. “Not every crime is a big mystery.”

Morse nods. “Thank you.” He remembers the times when they were more than a by-the-book DI and a rather errant Sergeant who gets away with more than he should. Strange leaves him a lot of leeway, which he's always appreciated. He realises now, though, that it was a long leash rather than being untethered entirely. Strange would notice if the collar came back empty.

“Just doing the job, Morse.”

 

–

“Morse?” The voice is quiet, but strong, and cuts through the hubbub of the station. He looks up from where he's been straightening his desk. It seems one or more of the constables took it upon themselves to check it for clues. “Don't you need a hospital?”

“Hmm? Ah, no. Debryn gave me a clean bill of health.” Joan fixes him with a painfully familiar look, for all that its been years since he last saw it. “He patched me up, and told me off,” he amends.

“Sounds more like him.” She takes a chair from the desk in front, and swings it round so they're facing each other. The station has already moved on around them – no one that bothered about Morse getting himself banged up again, and the staff have changed so much in the last few years than Joan no longer gets recognised. One or two furtive looks, perhaps, a whisper of the name Thursday, but that's it. “They told me, you know, why I was there.” She picks up a pencil and rolls it between her fingers.

“Are you all right?” He can't believe its taken him so long to ask.

“I'm fine.” He studies her until she cracks a smile. “Really. Either its not hit me yet, or nothing can quite top the bank robbery, and I'm destined to just feel slightly bored in any future hostage situations.” He remembers her pale, drawn face, but lets it pass. Her colour is back now.

“I'm glad.”

“They said I was there as one you love,” she pushes. “I wasn't sure who they were talking about at first – if Dad had been alive, well-”

“You would have thought they had him.” She nods.

“I haven't seen you in three years.”

“I told them that,” he confirms, lightly. “Outdated information, I suppose.”

“Seems a lot of trouble to go to.”

He looks at his hands for a second, then the pencil still twirling in hers. “It worked.”

“Yes.” The pencil stops, and he looks up in time to see her eyes widen just slightly as she catches his gaze. It makes her seem younger, a flashback to that first meeting on the Thursday doorstep. “Thank you, for that. You always seem to put yourself on the line for me.”

He grins. “Job of a copper. Comes with the big desk, the shiny nameplate, the respect everywhere you go.” She laughs at that, eyes crinkling again as the tension is broken, knowing as much as any civilian could the realities. The feet soaked in Epsom salts, the calls at all hours of the night, the bursts of mortal danger in amongst seas of bureaucracy and paperwork.

“Still, thank you.”

“Can I offer you a lift home?”

She eyes him critically. “I'm pretty sure you should be on pain relief that disallows operating heavy machinery. But also, my husband is on his way.”

“A cup of tea then?”

“No, he'll be here any minute.” They sit, silent, but its not uncomfortable. Until she breaks it. “Why me, though? Surely someone a bit more current would make more sense? You can hardly have known who they were talking about.”

“I've not known that many Joans,” he stalls, and she smiles at his use of her name, them both remembering her campaign to move him away from Miss Thursday. He's not sure what drives him to add, “I didn't think there was anyone for them to use.”

“No one?”

“No one current.”

She smiles sadly. “Married to the job?”

“I never was much good at leaving it at the door.”

“Morse-”

A tall man with dark hair dodges across the room, sweeping her to her feet and cutting her off in a bear hug. “Joan! Joan, are you-”

“I'm fine, I'm fine,” her voice is muffled, face pressed to his shoulder, and it makes Morse chuckle quietly. She rolls her eyes at him. “David, David, let me go, don't suffocate me, I only just got out of one sticky situation-” The man tightens his grip at that, but then relents, cradling her protectively under one arm. She tilts her head so it rests against him for a second, then straightens. “David, the desk you've attacked me against belongs to Morse – an old friend of my Dad's.”

Morse stands, and holds out a hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Yeah, you too,” David shakes, perfunctorily, then runs his hand through Joan's hair. “Let me get you home. You need rest, some tea-”

“Yes, just – could you go grab my coat? It's hung up outside.”

It's clearly a wrench, but after a reassuring smile from Joan, David leaves. “That's David, my husband.”

“I thought he might be.”

“He was worried,” she adds. “When he heard what had happened. That's why...” she trails off, waves a hand.

“Of course he was. Natural to be a bit...” he flicks his eyes up to hers and smirks. “Clingy.” She thumps him in the arm, smiling despite herself, then picks up her handbag and places it over one wrist.

“I should go, let him pamper me until he feels better.”

“Sounds tough.”

She opens her mouth, then hesitates. Her gaze turns serious. “What they said, about lo-”

“Nothing in it.”

He can tell from her steady look that's she's not convinced. “I'm happy, Morse,” she says, fiddling with the handbag clasp one-handed.

“I know-”

“Everything with us, it was so long ago-”

“Distant memory, if that.”

She nods, decisive. “In that case... if you ever fancy a drink? We could catch up, somewhere that's not...” she gazes around the room, emptying out as the shifts change but still big, still full of comings and goings, “...here.”

He spreads his hands, half shrug, half acknowledgement. His desk, his station. His life. “You know where I'll be.”

Her eyes still glitter, he thinks, as she smiles and turns away. He watches her leave, the same dark hair, same way of walking. He's naturally observant anyway, and trained to be more so; he'd know it in any crowd even now. Distant memory... it's not a lie. It's just not wholly the truth, either.

 


End file.
